directionless at best
by swirling-summernotes
Summary: Paris in the rain is always just going to be Paris in the rain when you're alone. /Dominique-centric


**notes:** I'm going to be honest when I say I have no idea what this is. I have not written in a thousand and one years, so please, be gentle. I'm sorry if it's a bunch of nonsense. I don't own anything, except the plot (if it can even be called that). Please review, and don't favourite without doing so! Thankyou.

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_hold out your hand, hold out your hand_  
_or we'll carry you_  
(editors)

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x

Paris in the rain is not always as majestic as it sounds, and that is the God-honest truth.

Which in Dominique's opinion, is not always a bad thing, because some people have this pre-conceived notion of Paris being fantastically romantic, and with this many couples pull on their jackets and walk out for a stroll, only to find that it is not exactly what is seems, and head into little bakeries for a croissant or two to escape from the cold rain.

It's not a bad thing, because Dominique takes her walks in the rain, and to be perfectly honest, she likes the thought of walking the streets of Paris on her own.

She's not sure whether she likes the feel of cold rain, or of getting soaking wet, or maybe she hates both of those things and just likes walking. In reality, she's really not sure of what she likes, and what she doesn't sometimes, or what she wants and what she doesn't want.

However, the blonde does know she sometimes wants to want.

Occasionally, and the use of the term occasionally is used with caution, because it is almost too heavy of a term – occasionally she stops and wonders why in the world she ended up in Paris, anyways, but then again the Weasley girls always had a sense of adventure, and moving to Paris seemed like a good idea after graduation.

And so she ended up here, in Paris, in February, probably the most soggiest, ugliest place on earth right now, with no real friends (because she doesn't count the stray cat who wanders around her apartment or the old lady named Linda who lives across the hall her friends, although she is on friendly terms with both), a job that she likes but doesn't love, and too much time on her hands.

She bakes a lot, that's to be for certain, in her small little flat with blue flowered curtains and stained white cabinets; lots of cherry pies, chocolate soufflés, and layered cakes and pumpkin cookies. She's made lemon meringue in the last week, along with blueberry muffins and strawberry shortcake, and she eats her baking at the end of each day while she drinks her tea, and reads her novel, and at ten pm each night she retires to bed.

And this is possibly the most tired she's been in her entire life, and yet there is no one in her life who is wearing her down. She's not sure what's she doing with her life right now, anyways.

Back to the rainy day in Paris, she makes a left on the slippery grey street. Being Dominique, and liking and not liking the rain, she didn't bring an umbrella, so her blonde hair is a dripping wet knot. Her mother would've killed her, but her mother isn't here.

She knows she should feel some sort of sad at the thought of her mother, but she doesn't.

And she's not sure why.

She'd like to know. She'd also like to know if there is any chance of attaining some sort of purpose except she's not to sure who to ask, maybe God? But she feels silly just thinking about it, so she drops the thought.

Dominique stares at her feet as she continues to walk the sidewalk, and in her line of view comes the iron feet of a bench that is stained with graffiti by some teenager or another. And she knows that right across from this bench there is a door to the bakery that she buys her baking supplies from on Tuesdays, and she debates with herself whether or not to go in. However, her feet keep moving, and as a result, so does the rest of her.

Her gloved hands are jammed in her pockets, and as she comes in the end of the sidewalk, she slowly turns around to bring herself back to her flat. Vaguely pondering on why she even came for this walk, to kill time on a lazy Saturday afternoon, perhaps, she fiddles with the inside lining of her jacket, and this is not an adventure.

Home in England comes to mind, but if she were being perfectly honest, she doesn't think she'd feel any more directionless there then she does here, so it doesn't appeal to her much. She's beginning to feel a little like Alice, from Wonderland, with her non-stop thoughts and occasional mutterings to herself. Alice, who muttered and murmured and thought about every direction in which she was turning. Who went with where the labyrinth took her.

x

Dominique rounds home, and the stray cat looks up at her from the front door. Her feet trail inside the flat, up to second floor. Her yellow door looks worn out, and the knob is brassy and could use some polishing.

Her fingers turn the key in the lock, but surprisingly the door is already unlocked, and this frightens her, possibly one of the first emotions she has felt in months. Cautiously, she fingers her wand in her sleeve and steps into the flat

On the old, rickety table, scattered over the dark red sofa, leaning in the doorframes, sitting on the countertops, they're all here. She has to blink twice to make sure they are not figments of her imagination. Red hair, blonde hair, black hair; green eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, they all stare at her, blinking their eyes, until Dominique starts to feel something inside of her.

Tears leak from her eyes for the first time in months, and she does not recognize them at first, for they are like long-forgotten friends (and not the welcome sort), so she assumes they are just bits of leftover rain, until she feels them seep into her mouth. They are warm and salty tasting.

And Lily from her spot on the counter starts to cry as well, and James steps forward and gathers Dominique in his arms, and she smells the familiar smell of Butterbeer and fresh linen and something else that is just James as she hugs him back, relishing in a warm body for the first time in months. And everyone stays like that for awhile, crying and staring and the apartment remains as silent as it has for months, even though it is crowded with people now.

Finally, Dominique whispers, "what are you all doing here?" And her sister shrugs, giving her a watery smile, but her brother is the one that answers.

"We thought you might be lonely."

Which makes Dominique cry harder, because she was, she was. She takes deep breaths, and Fred sets about to putting an extension charm on the apartment. She wants to inquire on how long they are staying, but she doesn't, and secretly she hopes it's forever.

"I-I have some leftovers," she says, and goes to the fridge, and out come the desserts. There are the muffins and cakes and soufflés and tarts, enough for everyone, as though she was expecting them, even though she wasn't. They sit around the small wooden table set, people on people on people, and suddenly she is not feeling so directionless, and somehow, there is hope when Lucy giggles a small little giggle, and how Lily's hair catches in the light, and how Victoire's eyes twinkle.

In the end, they stay in the little apartment in rainy Paris for the rest of February, and well into March, too. They sometimes take walks, and sometimes they don't, and they write to their parents nearly every week. They have little routines, and they understand that they will have to go back someday, except Paris is sort of comforting, in a way, and it finally feels like an adventure.

x

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**notes:** well, I don't even know if this made any sense at al, but. hopefully it did! please review, I'd love to know your thoughts. _Don't_ favourite without doing so, thankyou.


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